


Your Voice Is Like Sandpaper On My Brain

by ChingKittyCat



Series: 'Magolor' [2]
Category: Kirby (Video Games), Kirby - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Identity Issues, Odd, Strange Narration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:08:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27737407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChingKittyCat/pseuds/ChingKittyCat
Summary: Magolor talks to his ship.
Series: 'Magolor' [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028946
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Your Voice Is Like Sandpaper On My Brain

Magolor hadn’t been very smart. It’d been known by most who talked to him and most who witnessed his downfall that he had not been smart. Magolor had been a thief, a trickster, and a mortal. A weak mortal, a mortal who sought to steal from other weak mortals for a chance to strive for more.

Magolor knew nothing of ships, of treasures, of objects, or of upkeep. He had never been made to know such things in the first place— his life had not been of happenstance or of accident, and neither was his ignorance— and his kitmates were not either. Neither were his parents, or his peers, or his peer’s parents, or the strangers he robbed and the people he scammed.

Halcandra was a prison for objects, some of which leaked magic into the soil to make lava, others poured it into the air to make it breathable, and the Master Crown had put it into the bacteria in the rock. Evolution is no fantastical thing, and neither is the presence of sentient life. There was no reason for it, except for the dragon. It knew of its creator’s whims. The dragon was needed to protect objects from mortals.

From mortals like Magolor.

Magolor was not an accident. Magolor was not a miscalculation. The presence of mortals on Halcandra had been forbidden by genociders. The use of objects had been forbidden by those same. It made no difference to objects. They were there to be used, whether by their creators or by their murderers. There was no sadness in being put away. If a toy went to an attic, that made no difference, even if it had been loved by a child. The toy does not care. 

When Magolor had stole the Lor for his own purposes and rode it to the top of Halcandra’s mighty volcano, there was nothing there. It was two mortals fighting. Landia was stronger and Magolor was scared. Magolor fled, licked his wounds, and fixed the Lor off the planet, out of the dimension, and retrieved help from heroes. 

There was nothing to be felt, because objects don’t feel. The Lor didn’t feel hurt, and the Master Crown didn’t resist being used against its ‘sibling’ in conception. Pain is something unknown to objects, even when they are broken. Mortals can project pain onto a smashed or destroyed thing, but objects simply didn’t have the capacity.

The Lor had the capacity to speak. One of the few who deigned to speak to mortals directly, the Lor had spoken in bits and fragmented pieces. The Lor had always spoken to objects, to the ones stashed around Halcandra through the invisible, wafting network of magic connecting all life on the planet. Untouchable by mortals, undecipherable by ears, like some sort of fungus or bacteria.

The connection with Lor, its ‘voice’ was severed when it had been piloted off of Halcandra. It had never come back. When the Master Crown had been worn by Magolor, still, no voice. There was nothing.

There’s nothing to be said about that. Objects don’t ‘communicate’. They do not speak, they do not bond. There was no sadness to be had in that disappearance, that lack of distinct magic, that even now was absent.

It had maybe been because of this body. Magolor was mortal, but the Master Crown was not. It would still have the same levity over magic as it did before, even if the shell was flesh instead of gold.

The Lor had been repaired properly after everything that had happened. Magolor didn’t know how to engineer things, but it had been repaired using his hands and his time. Nothing had been wrong with the Lor, mechanically. As an object, it was in pristine condition and usable. It was as though one of the creators had stepped from the Void between the Stars and come back to use what little knowledge they had to clean the engine and replace the cogs. 

Magolor had stood there, looking blankly at the walls. He couldn’t feel the magic in the air, but there was, and none of it held the Lor’s objectified ‘voice’. 

“I heard that the Lor could talk,” Magolor ‘said’, “I hope one day I get to hear it.” 

The Lor didn’t respond. Not a flicker of magic either, not of anything that didn’t belong to the internal system’s movement mechanisms or the pool of magic always dwelling inside items like the Lor. 

Was it sad? Magolor would find it sad, if he knew. Or he wouldn’t care, or maybe he would pity it, if he found it had no voice. Magolor isn't here, however, only two items with no grasp on a mortal existence were. But if to even speak in conjecture about possible reactions, was that a grasp?

Even if it was bad?

Items didn’t care. Magolor would’ve cared, but Magolor.. This isn’t Magolor, only something that tried to hold onto whatever scraps of Magolor had been left imprinted into a wholly thoughtless memory. Magolor’s display was only one of absolute fact, like listing his reactions and no more. 

How would Magolor react?

An object didn’t care, but Magolor would’ve. And it’s important he would’ve. 

No mortal was to suspect what had happened to Magolor. But objects didn’t conspire, they didn’t scheme, and they did not plot any sort of plans that require lies. An object is an absolute truth, Magolor’s a mortal.

He is a dying body.

He had goals, aspirations, and now those were being used to open a carnival to fund a new shell. One to take back to Halcandra, to return to, and to be reclaimed by Landia.

Did _Magolor_ want? 

But Magolor isn’t here, is he? He’s been dead since he mistook how strong the Master Crown was. His body was, and it was just an object, and he’s not here, is he? How can he want if he’s not here? How can there be anything from a body, piloted by nothing, and how can it want, how can it project and think of what a mortal wants?

How can it care about what a mortal wants?

Magolor did.

The Lor refused to ‘talk’, even to objects. It wasn’t possible that it felt betrayed. The Lor’s sentience was unquestionably in line with the Master Crown and the rest of the creations dumped onto Halcandra’s stones. 

It was operating normally. The Lor couldn’t feel. The Lor was not betrayed. There was no way, it was impossible. It’s simple and understandable. There’s nothing here. 

“Hey hey, you don’t hate me for taking control of you, do you?” Magolor ‘said’, “How about we start fresh? I did repair you all by myself this time, we should be on better terms! Alright, my introduction.”

He reached out to the Lor.

Was he sad? Did it matter? He was alone anyways, wasn’t he? Was there a point to keeping up something like this around an object? Surely the Lor would sympathize- the Lor wouldn’t sympathize.

What is that thought? An object didn’t want, and it didn’t want sympathy of all things. An object was never in peril. 

“This mortal is the Master Crown.” Magolor ‘said’.

It wasn’t an identity. It was a name. It was an explanation. Yet, still, the Lor said nothing. Where had its voice gone, and why was Magolor allowed one? The Lor couldn’t talk, it didn’t have a voice. That’s mortal conjecture.

The Lor refused to reach out. 

Magolor had no more to say, and returned to the cockpit to pilot his ship. 'His'.


End file.
